


stranger to blue water

by cricketcheesecake



Category: Logan Lucky (2017)
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Smut, Gentle Sex, Meet-Cute, Sex, She's just a city gal who finds a simple guy, This is a character I imagined for Clyde, and I just couldn't get her out of my head
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-16
Updated: 2018-08-16
Packaged: 2019-06-28 04:26:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15700131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cricketcheesecake/pseuds/cricketcheesecake
Summary: Iris Welk is an accomplished chef, born and bred in Manhattan. She's got everything she's ever wanted: the fiance, the high-rise loft, and the career. Then, she leaves it all behind and meets a dark-haired bartender with a soft smile, and she can't find a good reason to go back.Alternatively titled: "Clyde Logan Inadvertently Seduces a Successful New York City Chef By Being Nice to Her Dog and Making Her the Best Martini She's Ever Had In Her Life."





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! I hope you all enjoy this fic! It's not technically a reader fic, but I think my OC is very relatable. I mean, she falls in love with Clyde, so she's gotta be at least a little relatable!

I realize, as my GPS dies after a long day of work, that this is the type of town people don't exactly vacation in.

There’s nothing but a long stretch of highway in front of me, but the sign I just passed announced I was supposed to believe this was a town.

_ Welcome to Sylvester! Pop: 160 _

Francine lets out a loud sigh in the passenger seat, her long snout pressed up against the gear shift and her front paw twitching. She’s been asleep for the past two hours, leaving me to entertain myself. I glance at the clock.

11:20 p.m.

Jason Aldean is crooning out from the speakers of my rental car, and as much as I hate country music, I hate silence more. Silence means I’m left with my thoughts, and I have a terrible, horrible feeling that the reality of this past week will hit me all at once. 

I have never left New York City in my entire life, except for a romantic getaway to Tuscany with Anthony where I came back with an engagement ring, and now here I was. 

I was in West Virginia, sans engagement ring, with my three-legged Borzoi and exactly five large suitcases. 

_The thought that some people live here, actually live here, is absolutely baffling,_ I think, passing a gaggle of teenagers smoking Marlboros outside the only gas station in this entire town. I considered rolling down the window and telling them this was a school night, but decided against it.

_Is there even a high school here?_ I muse to myself, as 11:20 p.m. clicks over to 11:21 p.m., and my stomach growls loud enough to wake Francine up.

“I know,” I say, as she blinks up at me with sleepy brown eyes and tries to stretch her long limbs out. “We’ll stop somewhere soon, I promise.”

She just stares up at me, as if she wants to say, _We had a perfectly good loft apartment in the Upper East Side with Anthony, bitch. Let’s stop there._

I just sigh, reaching over with one hand to fiddle with her Moschino dog collar. My phone begins to buzz in my pocket, but I already know who it is. My sister’s already left about a thousand messages already, and they follow a very similar trajectory. 

This time, though, I pick up. 

Approximately one second after I answer: “What the fuck, Iris?”

I stay silent, weighing my answer carefully. Fortunately, Harriet doesn’t give me time to respond. 

As usual, her tone is brisk, and I hear classical music playing in the background, which means she’s at home and extremely stressed out. “First, you text me late at night, saying that you broke it off with Anthony. About one month before the wedding, might I add. Then, after three days of static silence, with me, mom and dad all trying to reach you, I come out to the apartment, _and you’ve done a vanishing act?_ ”

“Well, when you put it like that, it sounds really dramatic,” I say, trying to hold my phone against my ear while driving. 

“How else would you put it?” 

“That I walked in on Anthony getting his dick sucked by one of the cake decorators at his bakery, and I felt more relieved than anything, so I decided to go off the grid for a while."

There’s a beat of silence. I picture Harriet, wide-eyed with a glass of wine paused halfway to her lips. 

Finally, she says: “Babe.” 

“I know,” I say, and this is really a more difficult conversation than I thought it would be. It’s hard to drive while on the cusp of a breakdown, so I pull into the first off-road I see.

Next thing I know, I’m parked in the parking lot of a rundown place called Duck Tape, listening to my sister go ballistic over the phone. I stare at the green neon lights outlining the windows. 

“I’ll kill him,” she snaps. “Anthony fucking Bianchi, I’ll kill him. Who does he think he is? You know, you just do whatever you need to do, and when you get back, I’ll have him all sorted out.”

I snort. “You’re a gynecologist, not a hitman.” A beat. “Harriet, honestly, I’m over Anthony. I’m not over how I used to feel about him, and what he did, but…Anthony and I haven’t been working for a while. We got along perfectly, but between his bakery and my restaurant, we just — ”

“Fell out of love,” Harriet finishes. Her wine glass clinked against her sink.

We sigh at the same time. “Yeah,” I say.

I hang up, after profusely promising I would keep her updated. Francine whines impatiently, and I remember three things:

1) we are both ravenous

2) I had forgot to pack kibble for her

3) I really need a drink.

———————

My legs are probably stiffer than I had ever felt them. I open the driver side door and slide out onto the gravel, groaning.

As I hobble to my feet, joints cracking and back screaming, Francine shimmies across the console and gets out of the car. She prances around me in a circle, sniffing the ground. 

She looks out of place here. Ridiculously so. With her elegant muzzle, designer collar and legs like stilts, it’s obvious she doesn’t belong here. I wonder if I give off the same vibes. 

Up on the bar’s porch, an older man who looks like 1999 Willie Nelson waves at me. “Hey, darlin’!”

I wave back, trying not to look like his accent jarred me. I had always wondered if Appalachian people in real life talked the way they did in movies, and now I have the answer. 

“Clyde allows dogs,” he continued, “so, assuming that thing is a dog and not a horse, you’re welcome to bring it in.”

I give him a thumbs up, fishing out Francine’s leash from the back and snapping it on her collar. Francine hops up the steps with me, giving the man’s hand a gentle lick.

I open the door to the bar, slipping in and immediately thinking, _This is cleaner than I had imagined._

The floor is worn but well-washed, and there are warm neon lights scattered throughout. Around fifteen people are here, most of them sitting at tables and sipping on beer. Women in bootcut jeans are laughing with men in NASCAR shirts, and there is a gigantic man behind the bar with soft eyes and a shirt that is fully buttoned up. 

I can’t remember the last time I saw a man my age wearing his shirt fully buttoned up. 

He glances over at the door, eyes landing on Francine, then me. I see him pause, his brows furrowing. Francine’s tail grazes my leg. 

_ Oh. Oh, right.  _

I hurry forward, toward the bar, and he takes a subtle step back, which is weird, but not as weird as bringing a dog into a West Virginian bar at nearly midnight. 

My hand lands, palm down, on the warm wood of the bar. “Hi,” I say, smiling. A disarming smile, the one I use to hop the lines at Brooklyn nightclubs and to placate disgruntled customers. “There was a guy sitting outside who said Clyde allowed dogs, but now I’m realizing I didn’t even ask if Clyde is the owner, so—“

“My name is Clyde,” he interrupts. “I’m the owner.”

“Oh!” 

There is a pause. “Well, Clyde, is it okay if I have my dog in here? She’s very well-behaved and quiet.”

To disprove my point, Francine stretches her long body up and props her paw against the bar, trying to look at what’s behind it. 

Clyde smiles at her anyways. “Yeah, ma’am, that’s just fine. What’s her name?”

“Francine,” I say. “I’m Iris, by the way.”

“Iris is a flower, isn’t it?” he asks, tentatively, and the way he says my name makes it seem longer and prettier than it is. The sound settles warm in my stomach. 

He’s angling the left side of his body away from me as he talks, which I wouldn’t even notice except for the fact that he’s essentially putting his back towards almost his entire establishment. 

I nod, responding, “I don’t suppose Clyde is a flower?”

He shakes his head, laughing in a way that is short and rusty. It shouldn’t even be called a laugh, by normal standards. But it makes me want to laugh with him. 

I ask him if he’s got any food items, and he lists off nachos, chicken fingers and trail mix. 

“Short and sweet, that menu of yours,” I say. “I’ll have two orders of chicken fingers.”

“I’ll make sure one of the orders is bland, for the lady.” He nods down at Francine.

_Fuck_ , talking to him is too easy. He’s looking at me out of the corner of his eye, and he is tentative in a way that is more charming than I’d like to admit. 

—————

** CLYDE **

 

The first thing I see is the dog. 

It’s a strange looking thing, long and pointy, with beige fur and missing a front leg. I follow the leash up, from the dog’s neck to the hand at the end. 

The woman ain’t from around here. Her hair is the color of rusty water, thick and curly and barely brushing her collarbone. Thick brows sitting high on her face and straight like bird wings. Eyes that drink in my bar lazily, critically. She cocks her head and I think, She is pretty in a way no one else is.

She blinks, and comes toward me with a sure step, like she’s used to fighting crowds. I take a step back for reasons I can’t really put a name to.

“Hi,” she says, and throws out a smile that gets her places in life. A smile that leaves no room for argument.

She starts to explain the dog, but I tell her the dog is fine. I don’t think I’d ever met a three-legged dog, and I feel like I’d be betraying amputees everywhere if I threw them out.

She tells me her name is Iris, and it sounds like freshly mowed grass coming out of her mouth. When I say it, it doesn’t do much justice. 

—————

** IRIS **

 

I hum, a smile washing over my face, putting both elbows on the bar and bracketing my face with my hands. I watch Clyde address other customers, disappearing in the back periodically to make the chicken tenders.Two people down the bar, a shorter man in camo pants and a woman with talon nails and an aura of hairspray, include him in their conversation often. I overhear him calling them Jimmy and Mellie.

They keep glancing over at me, so I fluff my hair and give them a smile. Not my disarming smile, but not the mushy smile Clyde caused a couple minutes ago, either. Just an average, New Yorker smile. The kind you give to exhausted businesswomen on the subway, or to street vendors in the summer. 

“What kinda dog is that?” The man, Jimmy, asks. He gestures his beer toward Francine, who was busy licking a bar stool leg. 

“Borzoi,” I reply. “She’s a rescue.”

“Do they usually come with three legs?”

“The standard is four, but she’s a special edition.”

They both laugh, and Clyde comes out of the back, balancing two plates of chicken fingers on his right forearm. The chicken on one of the plates has no coating, and he taps it. “This one here is for the hound.”

I like the way Clyde talks, I decide, dropping a chunk of chicken into Francine’s waiting mouth. Listening to him is like petting a bodega cat, slow and soft. But it’s like the words are rounder, and I feel like if I tried to imitate him, my mouth just couldn’t roll them out the right way. 

I flex my fingers, and the weight of my nonexistent engagement ring is barely noticeable. 

After a while of enjoying the food and listening to the chatter in the bar, I clear my throat. “Do you make martinis here?” I ask. Compared to him, the way I talk sounds like a museum tour guide.

Clyde stiffens, long enough for me to notice but not long enough for me to say, _Hey, don’t worry about the martini._

He begins making me a martini, and I see what he’s been casually hiding; his left hand is a prosthetic, dark grey and pretty high-tech. I keep my eye on his right hand as it flows through the movements, and the sound of the shaker is crystalline and achingly familiar. It reminds me of rooftop bars, the Brooklyn bridge and, now, a guy with shiny, dark hair. 

He slides it to me on a napkin, the olive swirling around in the glass. He’s frowning a bit, and he’s angled back away from me. 

Our hands brush as I reach for it. 

I make sure they do. 


	2. Chapter 2

**CLYDE**

 

Last night keeps replaying in my head like a broken record. 

A woman comes in late, with a three-legged dog and bags under her eyes. She didn’t take her eyes off me the entire night, and I had though it was because she saw the hand. But then I gave her the chicken fingers, and she looked at my hair in a way that no one’s really looked at my hair before. 

She had brushed her hand against mine, when I’d given her her drink. She had downed it in one gulp, then she’d said, “This the best fucking martini I’ve ever drank.” A pause. “And I’m from Manhattan, so that’s a big ass compliment.”

I swallow now, scrubbing the bar harder than it really needed. It’s 7 p.m., and the only people here are the regulars, plus Jimmy and Mellie. 

Mellie is tapping those nails of hers against her glass, and she’s giving me a look. 

“What’re you thinkin’ now?” I ask, flatly, and I sound gruff even to my own ears. 

She just sips her Pepsi. “That gal last night sure was fixin’ you up last night, Clyde. You get her number?”  


“I don’t know what you’re talkin’ ‘bout.” 

“The fuck you don’t. She coming back?”

I feel my ears burning, and there was something reassuring in hearing Mellie say it like it was facts. _Fixin’ me up._

“I gave her directions to the Motel 8,” I say.

Then, because it was only them who could hear me, I ask quietly, “She really looked like she liked me?”

Jimmy jerks his chin. “Hell yeah she did. City girl shocked as shit by how much she liked you.” 

“Did she—” I clear my throat, keeping my eyes trained on the counter as I scrub. “Did she look at my hand a lot? She pity me, you think?”

Mellie shakes her head, and I breathe deep.

——————

** IRIS **

 

_Quiet is not a synonym for dumb,_ I think, as Clyde pours me another glass of cider. He is witty, I’ve come to learn, and we’re playing a game of banter that is warm and electrifying like a neon sign. 

It’s my third night at the bar. He tells me about his family curse, after some coaxing from his brother, and then he asks me about my family. 

“There’s not much to say,” I tell him, but I talk anyways because he has a face I want to pour personal information on. “I was raised in Gramercy, a neighborhood in Manhattan. My parents are both NYU professors. My mom teaches Gender Studies, and my dad is in the Art History department.” I wave my hand around flippantly, and he keeps his eyes trained on my face like it’s a distraction test. 

Wistfulness teases my smile, and I circle the rim of my glass with a finger. “I have an older sister. Harriet. She’s 33 and has her own gynecology practice in Brooklyn. Her and her wife live in one of those fancy brownstones, and she’s a major wino. They’re planning on adopting a kid soon, and—”

There is a weighty pause, and Clyde waits in the silence with me. His bar buzzes around us, and I’m sure Clyde has other customers to attend to, but he just stands there like a soldier at rest. 

Finally, all in a rush, I tell him.

I tell him about Anthony, my Italian ex-fiance who cheated on me with a cake decorator named Lindsay. I tell him about how I worked my ass off to get into the Culinary Institute of America, graduated with highest honors, and started a successful restaurant. I tell him about how I leased a ridiculously expensive loft in the Upper East Side with Anthony and, once I had it all, I realized I had everything I’d ever wanted, but nothing I needed. I tell him about how my restaurant was too big and too expensive for me to even love it anymore. 

I tell him that I miss cooking just to create. 

—————

** CLYDE **

 

The words pouring from her mouth are giving me whiplash. 

She tells me things about her family that say, _You and this girl are cut from different cloth_. I’d seen pictures of Gramercy, from a war buddy who wanted to move there after his tour. Growing up there as opposed to growing up here is like oil and water.

Then, she tells me about her sister, and the way she talks about Harriet’s life reminds me of how I had thought about Jimmy when I was growing up. _How I think about Jimmy even now._ He got the girls in high school, and he got the friends. Even in the present, Sylvie hangs off Jimmy’s every word.

Then, there is a pause. It’s heavy and thick, laying across her shoulders and pulling her underwater. The air is tense, and when she finally starts to talk again, it’s like a jammed tap. 

She tells me she was engaged, to a man with an Italian accent who was wealthy enough to buy a bakery and co-sign on a lease with Iris in Manhattan. My hand twitches.

“He cheated,” she says, offhandedly, before moving on to the next topic. I frown so deeply that my eyebrows cramp. 

_She’s a chef._ I look down, and notice how her hands move through the air like they’re kneading bread, how her fingers dance across the bar like it’s delicate pasta. I feel a bit embarrassed that I gave her chicken fingers last night. 

She owns a restaurant, she tells me. In the fanciest part of New York City. I feel _extremely_ embarrassed that I gave her chicken fingers last night. 

Iris leans forward, sighing so forcefully that I half expect her soul to leave her body. She lolls her head on her propped-up palm, tipping back to look at me. Her eyes look like the bluest water.

She whispers, “I miss cooking just to create.” 

Her other hand tip-toes across the shiny wood to where mine is gripping the edge, and her fingers sliding over the top of mine is like putting a fork in a socket. 

She clears her throat. “Not to be that person,” she begins, “but would you mind me inviting myself over to cook dinner sometime?”

——————

** IRIS **

 

I don’t know how long I’m planning to stay here, but Francine likes the wide meadow behind the motel, and I like the company in this town. 

It is 5 p.m. on a Sunday, and I am getting dressed to go to Clyde’s house for dinner. 

Harriet is on speaker phone, and she’s not happy.

“You’re _such_ a dumbass,” she says. “Jumping from an engagement with the most eligible baker in the city, to endlessly flirting with some one-handed bartender.”

“I mentioned his disability as part of the general descriptive overview, not as a way for you to shit on him,” I respond, trying to find pants in my suitcases that aren’t loungewear or leggings. 

“Would you prefer jolly green giant?”

“Would you prefer I hang up on your judgmental ass?”

I snap my fingers near the phone speakers. “Should I go braless, assuming I’m wearing a crop top that shows my nips whenever I stretch?”

“If he were from NYC, I’d say yes, obviously. Since he’s from mountain country where there is barely any internet access, I’d say play it less strong. You don’t want to scare him off.” For once, Harriet gives a good answer. 

She clears her throat. “I still don’t really support this, by the fucking way.”

“Of course not. Love you,” I say, hanging up. 

I glance in the mirror, and my hand is almost halfway to my makeup bag when I realize that this is new territory for me. _I don’t know how to go on a date with someone like Clyde._

With Anthony, it was dates at wine houses and cooking dinners with imported ingredients. It was motorcycle jackets, calling Ubers, $50 martinis, and him buying me Tom Ford makeup for my birthday.

Clyde is different.

Biting my lip, I leave the makeup untouched. 

—————

** CLYDE **

 

I didn’t know what she’d need, so I damn near bought out the Wal-Mart. 

When she asked me if she could come over, I’d wanted to tell her, _You can do whatever the hell you want._ But instead, I told her _yes_ , tripping over the word and cursing myself the entire time. She had just smiled and nodded, hair swishing. 

Her being a fancy chef and all, my fridge would have sent her to an early grave. All I had in it was leftover pizza, some bananas and a liter of Cherry Coke. 

She hadn’t told me what she’d had in mind to make, so I spent roughly $500 to cover all the bases. I didn’t even know what the difference was between parmesan and asiago, but there were blocks of both sitting in there. 

_Stop wringing your hands,_ I want to yell at myself. She’s not supposed to come for another hour, but I’d gotten dressed at nearly noon. Black jeans, tucked-in button up. 

Fully buttoned, of course. I don’t want her thinking I’m an animal. 

After the motorway incident last year, I bought a small house about five minutes from the bar, with a yard and a screened-in front porch. It wasn’t flashy or anything, and there wasn’t much going on inside except books, but I hoped she wouldn’t think it was too small. 

The couch was cleaned, the dirty dishes were washed, and everything was in its place. Mellie’d even dropped by yesterday to give me a vase of flowers, which I don’t know if Iris would think was trying too hard or if she’d like the effort.

Faintly, I make out the sound of Francine coming up the porch stairs.

No sense making the poor thing wait around for you in that motel room all alone, I’d said. She can come, too. 

Then, I hear Iris’s footsteps following the dog’s.

There’s a knock. 

——————

** IRIS **

 

When Clyde opens the door, I grin. There’s no helping it. 

I do need to talk to him about the button thing at some point. He kind of looks like he’s going to a middle school dance, but my _god_ , do I want to climb him like a tree. He’s looking at me like I’m something special. I hope he knows I think he’s special, too. 

_ I don’t do this kind of shit for just anyone.  _

“Come on in.” He stands to the side, gesturing into the little bungalow, and we make our way into the living room. It’s sparsely decorated, just a couple interesting band posters tacked to the wall, with a nice sofa and coffee table, along with a flat screen hanging on the wall. 

The space is literally overflowing with books, though. 

I laugh, sidling over to one of the stacks. “Do you run the Sylvester Library in your spare time, Clyde?”

He blushes, running his hand through his hair. “I tried to tidy up, but its kinda, um, hard to tidy all this.” 

“Imagining you trying to stuff all these hardbacks into your closet is practically a Christmas gift,” I say, and he smiles, soft and sweet. I inhale, and notice the house smells like Pine-Sol and fresh flowers. 

Francine has since disappeared into the kitchen, so I follow her, and Clyde trails behind. It’s also got a lot of books, but it’s a little more contained, and the counter space is workable. Out of the corner of my eye, I spy dog bowls, a bag of kibble and a Wal-Mart pet bed. There’s a squirrel plushie, too. 

“You didn’t tell me you had a dog!” I exclaim, shoving his shoulder. I peek out the window into the backyard. “Where is it?”  


He shuffles around, looking uncomfortable. “I, uh, I don’t have one. I just—I told you to bring your dog, and I didn’t want her to feel, you know, unwelcome while you were makin’ dinner, so I just got this stuff for her while I was gettin’ stuff for you to cook with.” 

He pauses. “ _If_ you still wanted to cook. I also bought frozen pizzas, if—“

“Clyde,” I interrupt. He blinks. “That is one of the most thoughtful things someone has done for me, or my dog, on a date. Ever. Thank you.” 

He smiles, letting out a relieved little laugh that has me sidling up to him. Without thinking, I wrap my arms around him and lean up, brushing his cheek with my lips. Soft and easy. 

I feel him stiffen, but when I look at his face, he looks a bit starstruck. I say, softly, “Of fucking course I still want to make dinner. I’m itching for a fix.”

—————

**CLYDE**

 

“I feel kind of useless,” I admit, watching her sort out ingredients on the counter. She makes a sharp sound, waving a stick of butter at me. 

“You are no such thing,” she says. “I expect you to make cocktails as an appetizer.”

_Shit._ I get up from the kitchen table. “Oh, I—I didn't even. Think about that. I usually don't keep that stuff here, since I have enough at my—Well, you know.”

Iris looks at me from the corner of her eye as she tosses the block of white cheese, maybe asiago, in her hands. She nods. “No, I get it. Don’t want to turn into an alcoholic with all that booze around you 24/7. If I owned a bar, I’d probably be the same way.” 

My face feels a little hot. I consider telling her that she was close to the truth. After Iraq— I take a deep breath, clenching and unclenching my hand. “Do you need any help with this?”

She pauses. “Well,” her hands find the stick of butter and chopped garlic. “You mind sautéing these?”

I take it all over to the stove, and I hear her getting the pasta ready for the boiling water. Our backs are to each other, in this tiny kitchen of mine. So maybe thats why I feel brave enough to ask, “Why did you ask me on a date?”

I hear her hum. She does that when she wants to take a moment to gather her thoughts. Finally, she says, “Because I wanted to.”

My hand stops stirring the garlic, for a second. It’s a simple answer, for a simple guy, but she’s not a simple girl. 

“You think very loudly,” she teases from behind me. I hear her chopping onions. “To clarify, I mean that— I liked you the first moment I saw you, you know. And you’re sweet, and _funny_ , and you don’t come with any pretenses. And I’m worried that this date will find us way too different to work, like that you voted for Trump or something, but I…”

She trails off, then adds, “You’re really handsome, too. Obviously.”

If I hadn’t had the garlic to keep me busy, I would have been a fidgeting mess. _You’re really handsome, too. Obviously._

“You’re very pretty, Iris,” I say, because I think she aught to know. 

Then I add, “I voted for Hillary.”

I hear her laugh, and that’s that. 

She finishes making the pasta, and it smells cheesy, and garlicky, and way too fancy for this house. She pours some dog food into the bowl I bought, and I pour us glasses of Cherry Coke. 

“Cherry Coke,” she remarks, sitting down. “A bold and unconventional drink to pair with cacio e pepe, I must say.”

“Matches us,” I mutter.

She hears me, and reaches out to run a hand through my hair before taking her first bite. I try not to seem unaffected, but this is so easy for her, this effortless touching. Compliments roll off her tongue like they come free. 

_I can do this,_ I think. My foot brushes her under the table, in what I hope comes off as intentional and flirty. She looks delighted. 

The pasta is good, the best pasta I’ve ever had. I tell her that. 

“Oh, it’s just a basic recipe.” She flicks her wrist around, blushing and twining her ankle around mine as I try to pretend I don’t notice. “I don’t make it much anymore, but I used to make it almost every Saturday in college.”

“What else—” My fork clinks loudly against the plate, almost making me jump. “Um, what else would you like to make? Maybe, um, sometime—I mean, if you don’t want to, that’s fine, but, if you wanted to come over again sometime, I—we could get stuff from the Wal-Mart, but if you need better stuff, there’s a Healthy Life Market in Charleston that—that’s pretty nice.”

Iris is smiling, and it is the type of smile that takes over her whole face. She’s nodding excitedly,telling me I’d like this French dessert that I could never pronounce. 

_ Next time.  _

We talk about books and movies as I wash the dishes. She tells me that she loves documentaries and romantic comedies, and I tell her that I do, too.

“Don’t tell Jimmy,” I say, drying my hands. 

“Oh, I’m calling him up right now to tell him.” She mimics punching in a number on her hand, and holds the hand up to her ear. “Hello, Jimmy? I know it’s late, but do you know your brother’s favorite movie is Sleepless in Seatt—”

I laugh, grabbing her hand, and only realize too late that I’m using my left hand. The metal looks stark against her skin. My stomach sinks. 

She doesn’t even blink, but I must look how I feel because her eyes soften. Her hand turns to brush the fingers of my prosthetic before traveling up my arm.

There's a tug on my shoulder, her hot hand gripping my shirt and making me shudder. 

Iris tugs me down, and I think, _I hope I don’t taste like garlic._

——————

** IRIS **

 

He tastes like garlic, his lips soft and large. _I dig it, I dig it, I dig it._

His right hand comes up to grip my waist, and I feel his moan through my whole body. The way he’s curling his torso down to make our heads level is making my stomach flip.

When I was nine years old, I stepped into a hot tub for the first time. The heat had swallowed me whole, the jets had drowned out all outside noise, and all I could hear was the rushing bubbles and the static in my head.

Kissing Clyde was kind of like that. Alive and dreaming at the same time. 

My body presses him up against the counter, caging him in. Him, this large man about a foot taller than me with broad shoulders, warm skin and a thumping heart. I nip at his lower lip, and he makes a small noise through his nose that has my toes curling. My neck stretches to meet his mouth again and again.

I move his head to the side, tugging his hair and slanting my mouth across his until my lungs scream. He wraps his long arms around me, trying to match the rhythm I’ve set. It’s kind of clearly been a while since he’s done this. 

_Fuck_ , he’s hot. 

There is a hum coming from the fluorescent lights above us, and his kitchen is painted in a warm glow. When I lean up to bite at his neck, he presses closer to me; I lick his skin, and he gives a visceral reaction. 

“Mmm,” I purr against his ear, his breath coming in pants against my shoulder. “You taste like dessert.”


	3. Chapter 3

**CLYDE**

 

“You taste like dessert,” she says, and it’s important to stop this right now.

I screw my eyes shut, putting my hands on her waist to put a little distance between her mouth and mine. “We better slow down a bit, I don't want to rush—”

“We decide if we’re rushing or not,” she says, and when I open my eyes, her face is serious. I worry that I’ve said something wrong. I try not to pay attention to how she’s still pressed against me. 

When she speaks again, her voice is soft. “I’d like to have sex with you, Clyde. That’s where I’m at, but if that’s not where you’re at, that’s totally fine. I don’t want you to think I’m using you, or pressuring you. We can go slow.”

I am painfully aware of the way her finger is tracing patterns on my forearm, brushing the edge of my prosthetic. 

I tip my head forward to rest against hers. “Iris.”

“Yes?”

“If you want to do—do _that_ , because you feel like you have to, or feel sorry for me, then—”

She pushes her forehead back against mine, tenderly. “Why is it so unbelievable that I want to do _that_ because I like you?”

“Because think about you, and think about me.” _What is this to you?_

“Okay. I’m thinking about me, and I’m thinking about you,” she says. “Now what?”

I look her in the eyes. I want to be honest with her. “I don’t want this to be a one-night stand. You make love to a redneck bartender with one arm because there’s nothing better to do here, and then you go back to New York and never look in the rearview mirror, and I’m not a one-night-stand kind of fella, I’ve never wanted to do that, and—and I _really like you_ , Iris.”

“Clyde,” she whispers. “I really like you, too.”

—————

** IRIS **

 

** I don’t want this to be a one-night stand, either.  **

Clyde is taut like a bow under my hands, standing against the kitchen counter with my overheated body crowding him in. I tell him that I like him, that I really like him, and he doesn’t get any less tense. 

“Whatever you decide to do tonight,” I say, “I want it under the pretense that we will be taking that trip to that Healthy Life Market. I want to spend more time with you.”

He pulls his head up. Those big, brown eyes search my face for something, and I brush his jaw with my thumb. “I mean it when I say that I don’t want a one-night stand, either, Clyde. I like being around you, so if that means me going home soon or just watching a movie, then—”

“Okay,” he says, and his arms tighten around me. 

“Okay?”

He bends down to kiss my neck, and the hairs on the back of my arm rise.

After a while, I catch on that he wasn’t saying _Okay_ to the movie, or me going home. I feel his erection in his jeans, and when I sway my hips toward his, he doesn’t stop me. His hips sway back, and the kisses at my neck get sloppier. 

“Bedroom?” I ask. 

“Y—Yeah,” he croaks. “Bedroom.”

We leave Francine, who is peacefully sleeping in her new bed, and he walks me to the room in the back. He moves slowly, like he’s giving me time to change my mind. 

I wind my arms around his back, and he groans. _Touch-starved_ , I would have remarked teasingly, but I know how to read a room. Even in the span of a week, I know him well enough to see that he _is_ touch-starved. _Lonely._

Of its own volition, my hand makes broad sweeps across his chest as I press my cheek against his back. We stumble into the bedroom, a mass of limbs and good intention.

The bedroom is small, but it’s more lived-in and personalized than the rest of the house. He has a lot of blankets and pillows on the bed, and he scrambles to the bedside table to turn on the lamp. 

Then he turns to me, looking unsure and sexy and disheveled. 

I walk over to him, reaching forward to trail up to the top button on his shirt. I undo it, and the one below it, and the one below that, until his shirt is open and, _oh my god_ , of course he’s wearing a white t-shirt underneath. 

“Did no one ever tell you that showing a little chest hair is a good thing?” I say to his left pec, kissing it through the shirt. I feel the deep inhale he takes, and he shakes his head. 

Backing up a step, I slip my crop top off, and then I toss the bra off as well. As much as I am loving the foreplay, the bra is digging into my breastbone and, frankly, I want as much nipple-to-chest contact as possible. 

“Jesus, darlin’,” he breathes, his right hand coming up to brush against my side. The rough pads of his fingers send shocks of desire through the marrow of my ribs, and he’s looking down at me with such a soft look. 

I suggest, “Sit down on the bed?”

——————

** CLYDE **

 

I have no goddamned clue how we ended up to this point. 

It’s like I blinked, and then found myself lying back on my bed with my prosthetic hand sitting on the dresser and Iris slipping off my jeans. She’s straddling my calves.

My heart is hammering in my chest, her overwhelming presence making me feel drunk. She’s so damn beautiful, with her hands running down my sides and lighting the skin on fire. Her wide hips, her thick thighs, and her messy hair brushing her shoulders as she grins up at me. 

“Can I take these off?” She asks, softly, running a short fingernail underneath the elastic of my boxers. 

I nod vigorously, my throat feeling like it’s damn near closed. 

So she takes them off, and I lift my hips off the bed to help her, shoving my dick practically in her face as I do, which was _not_ my intention, and it dawns on me that I will probably never be sexy doing anything in my damn life.

Then she says, “You’re so fucking beautiful, Clyde.”

_Beautiful._ I cough, shifting on the bed. “Well—well, I wouldn’t say that, darlin’. But _you’re_ beautiful.”

“There can be two beautiful people in this room tonight,” she laughs, sliding her hands across my chest and down my thighs, her eyes fixed on the movement. “Don’t you think?”

“Y—Yeah,” I breathe, closing my eyes until I feel her move down, shifting over me.

When I crane my head to look down the length of my body, she’s looking up at me, curled over my legs and pretty damn close to my groin. Her breath is brushing against my hip bone, and her brows are arched suggestively. 

I am the full focus of those eyes of hers. It feels too exposed, and blood rushes to my face. 

I try to laugh, croaking, “Big guy like me, feelin’ like he wants to hide or something.”

I throw an arm—my good arm—over my face, feeling nervous and a little bit upset. _Men don’t act like this, men are confident in this kind of stuff, but it’s been so long since I’ve done this, since before—_

“Hey,” she says, in that gentle tone of hers. I feel her fingers brush my forearm. “Do you want to stop?”

I move my arm off my face quickly. “No, God no, no I just—I.” There’s a pause while I try to gather my words. “You’re just a lot for someone like me to handle, Iris.”

She pauses, so I add quickly, “In a good way. I promise, it’s—you’re _too_ good. And I—”

Iris smiles, leaning down to bump my nose. It’s enough for me to be able to say, an inch away from her mouth, “You really think I'm beautiful?”

She opens her eyes, looking at me. They are so big and dark and deep. Blue water. “You’re so beautiful that I feel surprised every time I see you.”

Jesus, I kiss her. 

—————

** IRIS **

 

It’s like the world fades away, when Clyde Logan kisses me and grunts against my skin. I want to luxuriate in the moment forever as he rolls me under him slowly, carefully.

I’d shimmied out of my panties a while ago, so now Clyde’s big body is curling over me while his hand slides to the apex of my thighs. I feel him pressing constant kisses to the top of my head. 

His erection brushes my thigh, hot and slick. I can’t help a hum escaping me, canting my hips up until his hand finds my vagina. I feel his breath huff out harshly when he feels how wet I am. 

“Alright?” He asks, gliding his fingers up and down my vulva, grazing my clit. My grip on his shoulders and waist tighten, and I nod. 

“Fuck, Clyde, yeah,” I say, my thighs falling wider without any conscious thought. 

Gently, he rubs my opening before sliding one finger in, and I turn to kiss his neck. “That’s good.”

He works me open with his hand, adding more fingers, lying half on me and half on the bed. Then I feel his other arm brush me, at the place where his hand used to connect. He stiffens instantaneously, his whole body suddenly rigid. 

“Hey.” I nip his neck. “Hey, you. You feel so fucking good.”

He smiles against the crown of my head. “Yeah?”

“Yes oh yes.”

Reaching down, I tap on his hand. He takes it away instantly, and the teasing way he trails the wet fingers up my side has me grinning and panting at the same time.

"Condom?" I suggest, pointing to my pants, wadded up on the bedside table.

He inhales sharply, reaching over and fishing around in the pockets till he finds one. He opens it with his teeth and rolls it on, which is something I'd never found sexy before. But when Clyde does it, biting his lip, _holy hell._

_This is literally already the best sex I’ve ever had,_ I think, as I nudge him up over me. _And it’s not nearly over._

There is some shifting and a final twist of my hips, and—oh—he’s there, laying in the cradle of my thighs. His hand holds my hip as he braces himself over me on his elbow, and he’s looking down at me with an unreadable expression.

An unreadable, indescribable, delightful expression. 

I reach down between us, grasping him as he twitches above me. I position him at my entrance, kissing his neck, and he slides inside me with a broken moan. 

My back arches. He fills me so completely, both because he’s a little bigger than other guys I’ve dated and because it’s _him_. It all works so well, the individual parts of who he is. It’s like one perfect storm of mismatched traits that, somehow, leave me ready to orgasm before we’ve even gotten a rhythm going. 

And— _fuck_ , he’s getting a rhythm going, long and deep thrusts that bend my spine as I roll my hips to meet him. His hot breath ghosts against my forehead, and I can feel viscerally how tall he is, how he blankets me so completely.

We rock together, with an occasional praise from me and an occasional small noise from him. There's no music in the room, my whole world feels entirely focused on the wonderful person on top of me, in me, around me, and the pressure that's getting more and more unbearable between my legs. _God, it's good._

I feel his hand stretch across my hip, shifting over until he works his thumb into my folds and finds my clit. Holy shit.

“ _Clyde_ ,” I cry out, gripping his neck. “Oh God, don’t stop that.”

“Won’t,” I hear him grunt, as his thrusts get more and more erratic, and his thumb rubs harder. I can feel his forearm trembling from effort, the one holding him up, so I nudge it. After a few moments, he gets the message, slowly sliding his elbow up until the entire length of his body is pressed up against mine. He exhales in relief.

His strokes turn into desperate grinding, constantly stimulating my opening and _holy fucking hell_ , his weight is pushing me down into the mattress and he’s panting my name as his chin hooks over my head and I think I lean up to bite his Adam’s apple and _oh God oh God_ —

“I’m coming,” I say—or whimper—as the tight knot in my belly finally clenches and lets go. I make a noise, spasming so fucking hard around him that I hear him whimper, too. 

Dimly, I’m aware of him thrusting once, twice, and then jerking forward, going still as he moans my name like a sacred word. 

For a moment, we lay there, panting and sweaty, and my eyes practically refuse to open. If some doctor told me that my bones were liquid now, with no way to reverse it, I would believe that motherfucker. 

_ I couldn’t see Clyde’s face when he came, but I knew it had been a beautiful sight. _

He eventually goes soft inside me, and I feel him start to shift away, rasping, “I’m sorry, darlin’, you’re under there suffocatin’—“

I keep my legs wrapped tight around his waist. For some reason, it felt imperative that he stay weighing me down. I craved it. It was like I’d only fallen in love with people who were only half there, made of air. But Clyde is flesh and bone and heavy. 

“No, no,” I say. “Stay there. If you want?”

His breath huffs, and he bends down to press a kiss to my cheek. “Of course I do.”


	4. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the final chapter! I loved writing about them, and it makes me happy to give Clyde the happy ending I'd been envisioning since I watched the movie. 
> 
> Also, you just CAN'T tell me that Clyde wouldn't absolutely become obsessed with metaphysical superstitious stuff.

**IRIS**

 

_It was so easy, loving Clyde,_ I think. Francine tugs on the leash I’m holding, and I trudge over to a spot of grass outside our house.

It was a brownstone. An old one, with an iron railing and the suggestion of a front yard. Something like this would have been impossible to get in Manhattan, but it was attainable in Queens. 

Clyde likes Queens better than Manhattan. 

We don’t spend all our time in New York, of course. Clyde still owns Duck Tape, so we split our time between here and Sylvester. I never wanted to take him away from his hometown and, as for me, Sylvester has a special place in my heart. It’s where I met the love of my life.

_Five years._ I’ve been with Clyde five years, and every time I see him, it’s like a reboot to my entire system.

I look up at the trees lining the street, smiling. Five years of trips to food markets, trading soft words under the covers, and talking about family curses.

I walk up the slippery steps and into the house, unclipping Francine’s leash. She bounds into the living room, where Clyde is reading one of the books I’d gotten him for his birthday. He's wearing a dark blue sweater that's a little loose around his neck, letting his collarbone peek out. 

“How do you like it, gorgeous?” I ask, curling up on the sofa next to him. 

He smiles, shyly, wrapping his left arm around me. He’d left his prosthetic upstairs this morning.

“It’s good,” he says. “It’s real good. As good as the movies. D’you want me to read to you?”

I nod, leaning my head against his, feeling the softness of his black hair. “I always want you to read to me, especially when it’s J. R. R. Tolkein.”

He picks up where he’d left off, pausing intermittently to press a kiss to my temple. 

I remembered back to when we first moved here. He hadn’t seemed worried about the money at the time, or concerned that we were going to be essentially owning two houses. I’d offered to cover most of the down payment, but that was before we decided to join our bank accounts. Turns out, Clyde Logan was one loaded son of a bitch.

It’s never occurred to me to ask where he got all that money. I don’t think I ever will because it’s probably an inheritance, or from his time in the military, or maybe he’s just a really good saver.

Clyde likes Queens, which surprised his family. And me, too, to be completely honest. He liked the diversity. He liked being able to walk down the street and occasionally see people like him, missing a limb or using a service dog, as they go about their lives in Queens just like he is.

I should have known he’d thrive with all the metaphysical supply stores in New York. He'd found one right down the road. Clyde would go there almost every day, asking questions and talking about curses for hours, so they'd offered him a part-time job for when we were in town. Now, he had books on curses, salt lamps, and crystals in every corner of the house.

_ God, I loved him.  _

“Mellie’s birthday is coming up,” Clyde says, and I blink my thoughts away. “What should we get her?”

_We._ I never got tired of it. “Well, she always begs to come visit, so how about she spends a week here? I can take her up to Manhattan, show her the stores, and then bring her to the clubs in Brooklyn?”

He huffed. “Maybe that’ll pacify her. It’s perfect.”

To say that Mellie had been jealous when Clyde announced he was moving to New York, was an understatement. She’d been the only Logan sibling who had ever wanted to live here, and no one had ever thought, in a million years, that Clyde would be the Logan to actually do it. 

But here he was, and here I was. _Here we were._

I pat him on the leg. “I’m going to start dinner. Ciceri e tria for the main course, tiramisu for dessert.”

“Can’t wait,” he says, as I get up. “Don’t know what those are, but I can’t wait.”

I lean back against the doorframe, grinning down at him. “Then afterwards, maybe you can read my palm lines. See what my love life is going to be like, or if I’m cursed.”

He just huffed again, and got up to look for his book on palm reading. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The answer is yes: Clyde does routinely do a sage cleanse in both houses.


End file.
